


Two to Tangle

by HelloAfternoon



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Awkward Romance, Bad Poetry, Canon-Typical Violence, Circle of Magi, Dark Magic, Drinking & Talking, First Love, First Time, Grey Warden Stamina, M/M, Nervousness, POV Zevran Arainai, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 03:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15063749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloAfternoon/pseuds/HelloAfternoon
Summary: He misses the broad, waxy green leaves of the plants in Antiva, soaking up the generous sunlight. He misses the seagulls and the loud marketplaces and the stinking alleyways where miscreants like himself prowl the shadows.But he has to put thoughts like those out of his mind. His bedroll is soft and he is, miraculously, still alive. For the moment, that is enough.





	1. Waking up Dead

“Are you certain you are alright?” Alim asks for what must be the tenth time in as many minutes. Zevran is beginning to regret that his life was spared in the first place.

Not to sound ungrateful-it isn’t often that lady luck so firmly yanks one back from the brink of death by the seat of one’s trousers, after all-but Zevran had been rather set on dying. Since that plan turned out to be a bust, however, he isn't really sure what his future has in store for him any more.

“I am fine, Warden,” he replies.

Warden Surana is a long, dark figure with fine, high born features and pointed ears-an odd combination, though quite handsome. He makes his ratty old robes looks like proper fitted ones, the way he walks around in them-barely a graceful whisper, his face shrouded by waist length, ink black hair.

Alim sits by the fireside, curled tentatively around some enormous tome on his lap. Its worn leather binding looks to have survived centuries, and its pages are yellowed with age. Alim's long, tapered fingers pick at the edges, itching to turn to the next chapter. He’s been diligently pretending to read, but Zevran knows when he’s being watched.

Zevran’s injuries, in truth, are still a source of pain, but he has endured far worse for far less and there’s a hot bowl of venison and potato stew in his lap, so he can’t complain. The cold Ferelden sun is setting above the treetops, the sky turning a greyish purple color. Before Zevran, a warm dinner fire spits and crackles, licking up into the chilly night air.

“Pack it in,” says the other Warden, walking past Alim and giving him a hearty, broad handed slap on the back, which nearly knocks the lithe, pointy mage off his stump. “Need to turn in if we’re going to cover any ground tomorrow.” Then he turns to look at Zevran, who gives him a friendly smile. Alistair narrows his eyes in response, scratching a cheek now fuzzy with stubble. Zevran is thankful to be an elf and therefore not have to shave on the road; Alistair looks like he’s had a rough time of it. 

“Keep an eye on him,” Alistar says, turning to Alim and pointing in Zevran’s direction.

"Hm?” Alim replies, looking up with pretty, cornflower blue eyes. “Oh, I…am perhaps not the best person for the task, Alistair,” he says. Zevran knew he was a circle mage-the description he’d been given of his mark for this job had been thorough-and so the proper way he speaks shouldn’t be surprising, and yet it is, out here in the woods. His voice is soft and measured and entirely too polite. He speaks with the cadence of someone who half expects to be slapped.

“I can hardly ask Leliana. She needs all the rest she can get after the whole…” Alistair waves his hand around, “...circle debacle.”

Alim sighs and gives Alistair a small, polite smile. “I’ll handle it.”

Alistair just stares at him for a moment. “Do I want to know what you intend?”

Alim blinks back at him, unfailingly pleasant. “You said you detest black magic.”

“Bluh,” Alistair grunts, waving both his hands at Alim. “Fine. Voodoo him. Just don’t let him slit your throat in the night, I don't fancy having to hunt the archdemon by myself. Lot of work, that.”

Zevran casts a nervous glance in the mage’s direction, slurping the broth from his stew. Alim may seem meek in conversation, but Zevran has fought the son of a bitch. He knows a powerful mage when he meets one in combat. As Alistair disappears into his tent, Zevran is struck with the acute memory of being electrocuted by the man in front of him. Yes, that had been bad. He hadn't enjoyed it.

Alistair pops out of his tent, nearly startling Alim out of his seat for a second time. “Remember to feed him twice a day and take him for walkies,” he says, pointing at Alim and winking, before retreating back inside. Alim sighs.

“So...what DO yo intend to do with me, Warden?”

Alim looks at Zevran. His expression is the very picture of cool neutrality. “Well, I will put you to sleep,” he says. He waves his hand and a soft glow emanates form his skin as if seeping from his pores. “And before you ask, no, I will not plague you with nightmares or lock you in eternal rest,” he continues. He directs his even gaze at Zevran, somewhat menacingly. “Not that I couldn’t. It’s my specialty. But I won’t, on the grounds that you’ve not yet given me reason to.”

Zevran examines him closely. “And...the attempt on your life was not grounds to do this?”

“People have done worse than try to kill me,” Alim says, shrugging his pointy shoulders. Then he stands. “Well, you’d best get in your tent and arrange yourself comfortably. I’ll not have you put to bed in an uncomfortable position.”

"Oh ho ho,” Zevran says, licking the last of his food from his lips. “You wish to see me in bed, do you?”

Alim stands, closing the heavy book. Zevran thinks he must be stronger than he looks to carry that thing around. “No, that’s…no. No, no, no.” he says. Then he makes a shooing motion with his hand in Zevran’s direction. “Certainly not. Brush your teeth.”

Zevran hasn’t been told to brush his teeth by anyone...ever, he doesn’t think. The whores who raised him certainly didn’t care.

He eventually crawls into his small tent and onto his bedroll. Alim leans in after him.

“I do not enjoy this, for the record,” he sniffs. “One isn’t supposed to put practice hexes on others without permission. My apologies in advance for any discomfort you may experience.”

Zevran lies down, blinking at him. “You are being very polite about forcibly subduing me.”

“Would you rather I tie you up?” Alim huffs, seeming offended at the very idea. At Zevran’s lecherous grin, he simply sighs. “No, I will not tie you up. Lie down. You won’t feel a thing.”

He’s right about that, at least. The sleep isn’t exactly restful, but the next thing Zevran remembers, he’s waking up at dawn, the sunlight glowing through the leather of his tent. It’s sort of a remarkable feeling, like he blinked and missed several hours of his life. Like being blackout drunk but without the subsequent hangover.

As he’s blinking sleep from his eyes and beginning to wonder where he shucked off his armor, a stick pokes through the flap of his tent.

Zevran eyes it for but a moment before it pokes him hard in the calf. “Ow!”

“He’s awake!” Someone calls from outside-judging from the baritone pitch, it’s Alistair.

“Alistair, I asked you to wake him, not assault him!” Alim answers shrilly.

Zevran rubs his eyes and pokes his head out of the tent-indeed, Alistair is standing there holding a long stick, and Alim is beside him giving him a shrewd, chastising stare.

Alim snatches the stick out of Alistair’s hands. “My assassin waking device!” Alistair protests.

Alim breaks it suddenly over his knee and tosses the remaining halves into the breakfast fire, where they catch flame. He dusts his hands off and sticks his nose in the air, then turns to look down that very nose at Zevran.

“Ah, good. I take it your wounds have not caused you any great suffering?” he asks, with what might be genuine concern. “I did try my very best to make that spell…" he pauses, “...potent. So you would not suffer int he night, you see.”

Alistair, in spite of himself, is clearly giving Zevran a once-over. He looks cartoonishly suspicious.

“I am fine, Warden,” Zevran answers, bowing his head slightly in polite defection. “Thank you for the…” he hesitates, “...concern?”

“Think nothing of it,” Alim replies mildly and with practiced ease, though the tips of his pointed ears flush pink.

“Right, now that we’ve roused the man who tried to kill you,” Alistair says, “could we hit the road? If we lay around any longer Sten might bite his sword in half from anticipation.”

Sten, the hulking Qunari who hauled Zevran back to camp, is standing off to the left of everyone else, an enormous dog at his side. They both seem completely taken by a bird off in the distance.

Alim sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose like a mother whose patience is being taxed by her unruly children. “Yes, I suppose we should,” he wrinkles his nose. "No time for tea, then...”

Zevran gets the distinct impression that Alim Surana is unaccustomed to life on the road.

They all pack up their things and load them onto Bodahn’s cart. The wagon wheels protest under the weight, but they make it work. It’s nearly noon before they’re able to hit the road, and when they do, two people have to stay behind to watch over Bodahn’s little investment in their success while others scout ahead. Given that he evidently can’t be trusted not to run out into the woods and immediately go about laying down traps for his new companions, Zevran is all but tied by the belt to Alistair, who is all but tied by the belt to Alim, who can’t read a map to save his life.

So they’re all tied to Sten, who can read a map.

“I’m just saying that if you didn't spend forty minutes each morning doing your hair, this would go much faster, no?” Leliana says to Alim, who flushes and splutters at the accusation.

“There’s nothing wrong with tidiness!” he says, crossing his arms and looking annoyed. “Why don’t you pester Alistair about his excessive grooming?”

Leliana giggles merrily, entirely unbothered. “He only has but three inches of hair, and you treat yours as though it were spun from gold.” Her eyes glimmer with delight inappropriate for someone being stalked by a horde of darkspawn. “Not that I do not appreciate your efforts-you do have LOVELY hair.”

Alim flushes pinker still. “Thank you,” he replies primly, flipping his long black locks self consciously over his shoulder. “Yours is...knavishly handsome, Leliana.”

Leliana just beams at him in response as they crunch through the cold Ferelden underbrush, barely remaining on an old path branching from the king’s road.

Zevran slows his walk for a moment to listen in on their conversation but Alistair grabs him by the collar of his leathers and yanks him forward. “Oi, no dawdling,” he says gruffly, though he has all the commanding presence of a puppy learning to growl.

Zevran holds his hands up defensively. “I am merely observing the sights, Warden,” he answers. “Ferelden is such a…grey place. Never have I seen so much grey, it is fascinating!”

“Right, because you just adore Ferelden,” Alistair says, eyes narrowing. “Stay where I can see you.”

“Alistair, don’t you think you could be a bit...easier on him?” Alim asks, catching up to the two of them, his muddy boots worn from many days walking and the cloak around his shoulders tattered at the bottom. Still, he looks quite well kept, and when he makes quick eye contact with Zevran he smiles apologetically.

“Stuff it,” Alistair answers huffily. “He’s a danger. You can’t honestly believe he won’t just turn around and stab you in the back the second he can.”

“Well, he HAS sworn and oath of loyalty,” Alim points out confidently, as though the word of an assassin might hold up in court.

“It would be too much effort to stab the Warden in the back,” Zevran asserts, just to test Alim’s reaction. The young mage turns attentively to listen to him. “More likely I would simply poison all of you and be on my way-or, failing that, cut his femoral artery in the night. It can be done with only a pencil!”

Alim stares at him, aghast. Zevran smirks back in his direction and Alim flusters away. "On second thought, mayhaps we should purchase a harness and leash for him,” Alim declares, clearing his throat.

Zevran arches a thin eyebrow at him and winks salaciously. “Do tell...”

Alim goes red and his eyebrows pinch together-he makes a face like he’s just smelled something terrible and closes his cloak protectively around himself. “And a muzzle, perhaps.” Somewhere behind him, Leliana giggles at his expense.

From that point onward Zevran makes every attempt to corner the Warden alone. Alistair keeps him on a tight leash so it proves difficult, but Alim is too naive to avoid his company, though he now regards him with suspicion, having been embarrassed.

Apparently the embarrassment was worse than the assassination attempt.

Zevran’s amusement only lasts so long, however. Soon enough they come upon a village-or what’s left of one.

Black smoke rises up off of burned huts and piled corpses, mutilated beyond recognition. It’s impossible to tell if they were human or elven or perhaps dwarves. Some of the smaller bodies must have been children, but it’s difficult to recognize them as such.

“Maker have mercy,” Leliana gasps as they pass the little hamlet on their forgotten trail. Bodahn guides his son away, murmuring “don’t look” under his breath.

On their path is a horse. It’s dead, bloated from a day in the sun. It stinks of rot and around it large, fat black flies buzz lazily in the air, glutting themselves on the banquet. Beside it is the corpse of what must have once been a young girl, for the remains of a blue dress tangle her broken, mutilated limbs. Her flesh has been stripped and her bones bear the grating marks of sharp teeth.

“Are they still here?” Sten asks stonily, turning to the Wardens.

Alistair has a dark, unreadable look on his face. Alim pulls a single white handkerchief from his pocket, hand shaking, “N-no,” he answers, more firmly than Zevran expected. He puts the handkerchief over his mouth and nose, wincing at the smell. “Barring the chance of any survivors,” he pauses, his gaze darting apprehensively about the scene before them, “we are alone. So long as we stay away from the main road, we should...we should reach Redcliffe Castle in a day’s travel.”

“Come now, my boy,” Bodahn says. “Let’s not linger here.”

“Surely there must be something we can-!” Alistair starts, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

“Alistair,” Alim says, shaking his head.

“Let’s burn the bodies,” Alistair says, turning frantically to Alim. “These weren’t soldiers, they didn’t-they deserve to be put to rest!”

Alim regards him for a long, tense moment, weighing his options. Then he sighs. “I’ll burn them and meet up with you further down the road. Get Bodahn and Sandal out of here.”

Alistair looks for a moment like he might argue, but then his posture goes limp and he hangs his head. “Understood,” he replies. He pats Alim’s shoulder with his broad hand. “Thank you.”

Alistair pulls Zevran away from the scene and they leave Alim behind. Zevran watches over his shoulder as the little village fades into the distance-at the last moment, he sees a burst of magical flame, reducing what little was left of the place to cinders.

They really are Wardens, then. For hundreds of years the Wardens have lain dormant, and now...the Blight has truly begun, hasn’t it? Here in this frigid landscape, with only two young men left to stem the tide of Darkspawn onto the surface.

Zevran wonders what his future holds.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Alim catches up to them they’ve once again left civilization. He treks up behind the group with soot on his boots and a grim look on his facce. Zevran is beginning to grow grossly familiar with the look of worry on Alim’s face-it seems to be his resting expression.

That evening Alim tucks in by the dinner fire on a blanket with a small bottle of cheap brandy and one of his more hefty books. Alistair, still possessed by residual despondency, retires early after dinner. Morrigan goes not long after him, and after a little while, only Zevran, Alim, and Leliana remain.

“Thank you for what you did today,” Leliana says out of the blue, scooting up next to the Warden while Zevran sits nearby chewing on a piece of bread.

“Whatever do you mean?” Alim asks. If he had reading glasses, he’d be looking over them.

Leliana smiles. “With the village,” she says.

“Oh,” he replies. “Think nothing of it,” he says-a phrase he relies on a lot, Zevran has noticed. “It is my job, isn’t it? I’m a Warden.”

“Still,” Leliana says. “It’s good to know there are people like you out in the world who don’t grow callous to tragedy-who are compassionate in the face of overwhelming, senseless cruelty.”

Zevran isn’t certain if that’s wisdom or extreme naivete, but he doesn’t interrrupt.

Then Leliana leans over and gives the Warden a kiss on the cheek. He flushes and splutters. “I-that-it’s fine! It’s my job!” he insists. Then he sighs. "Not that I always enjoy it, but...if I was going to break, I’d have broken at my harrowing,” he says, “or at my joining, or the battle of Ostagar.”

Leliana giggles. “I suppose that is reassuring to hear-though I would still feel better if there were more than two Wardens in all of Ferelden.”

“Wouldn’t we all sleep better at night, were that the case…” Alim sighs. “Go to bed, by the way. We arrive at Redcliffe in the morning and I won’t have us looking shabby in front of an arl.”

“When will you go to bed?” Leliana asks.

Alim looks between his book and his brandy. The fire crackles and spits before him, and his fingers play with the spine of his book. “Do not worry about me.”

Leliana gives him a prolonged look of concern, but doesn’t push the subject. “Goodnight, Alim Surana,” she says in a soft voice devoid of her usual jovial glee.

Alim smiles warmly at her. “Goodnight, Leliana.”

When she walks over to her tent, Zevran finishes the last of his bread and watches Alim from the dark. His hair has fallen from its usual kept state and there’s a worried mark between his eyebrows even as he reads, sipping at his brandy at a rate that will only get him buzzed.

Zevran clears his throat.

“Yes, Zevran?” Alim answers politely, looking up at him with disinterest.

“Pardon me, if this is too bold,” Zevran begins.

“It’s you, so it likely will be,” Alim replies, a wry smile curling his lips. “Go on.”

“Are you and Leliana...involved?”

Alim blinks at him, shockingly uncomprehending. Then he suddenly flushes. “Ah-what? No!” he says, fumbling and nearly dropping his book. “No, no, no-Maker, absolutely not!” In his gesturing he knocks over his brandy, which spills into the grass. He looks down at it with delayed comprehension and then hisses, “Bollocks!”

Then he looks up at Zevran, flustering further. “Pardon my language.”

Zevran just grins back at him, intrigued. “Is that so? The two of you seem quite close…”

Alim frowns, glaring daggers at Zevran even as the apples of his cheeks turn pink. “We are friends! I don’t know what made you think otherwise.”

“Perhaps all of the…complimenting, and cheek kissing, and snuggling?”

Alim looks away, snorting haughtily as if the very idea were ludicrous. “We were not SNUGGLING!”

“Hm-then what is it that you call it in Ferelden, when a beautiful young woman wraps her arms around you and leans into your warmth?” he continues, pushing further. Alim’s reactions are beyond entertaining-it’s entirely too easy to get a rise out of him.

Alim scoffs. “Beautiful young women seldom wrap their arms around me, Zevran-and even if they did, not all of us are quite so loose with our affections,” he says, though it doesn’t sound defamatory or like an accusation. He raises an eyebrow in Zevran’s direction and the fire snaps up in front of him, swallowing up another dry leaf.

“You seem quite tight with yours, my friend,” Zevran says with every insinuation he can muster. Alim huffs.

“I simply enjoy my privacy,” he replies coolly.

Zevran scoots closer, leaning on the same downed log as Alim, avoiding the wet spot of grass where his brandy spilled. “...you are more loose in private, then?” he purrs.

Alim leans away from him, scrunching his neck up and narrowing his eyes. "Please don’t be unpleasant. I’ve had a long day.”

“I’m just being friendly!”

“No, you are…making insinuations about how I spend my private time. Couldn’t we talk about something else? ANYTHING else?”

“Hm,” Zevran rumbles, looking about and deciding to relent, lest the mage cast a hex on him and put him out of his misery. “What are you reading?”

Alim blinks. "Oh…You wish to know?”

Zevran shrugs. “I have never been the academic type, and you always have your nose in one of these ridiculous tomes. What is it about?” he asks, and then grins from ear to ear. “Is it bawdy poetry?”

Asking about the book was evidently the right move, because Alim’s posture changes immediately-he seems to relax, and though he rolls his eyes at Zevran, he also smiles and leans the book towards him. The text is so small that Zevran can hardly read it, and not all of it in common. Complex diagrams in languages he doesn't understand litter the page and there are countless tiny, cursive notes in the margins.

“This is a treatise on the four schools of magic-I’m reading about entropic magic,” Alim says, pointing to the page as if it might bring clarity to Zevran, who can hardly read it and can certainly make no sense of the complex illustrations. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” he says, and for once his eyes dance with excitement. Zevran is, for a moment, taken aback by the expression of raw joy.

He realizes suddenly that this is the first time Alim has smiled since they met. It looks strange on his face because Zevran has never seen it before, and it makes Zevran wonder how a person can get by, never smiling.

Though he understands not a bit of the subject matter, he feels inexplicably compelled to ask Alim about it. “Forgive me, I know little of magic…what does this say?” he asks, pointing to a block of particularly dense text in the upper left corner of the page.

“Hm,” Alim hums. “It’s a bit more complicated...you see, Entropy is the first of the two School of Matter, the second being Creation,” he explains, talking a bit faster than normal. “Much entropic magic is considered evil or inherently part of the ‘dark arts’-Chantry propaganda, of course-but entropic magic is all about cycles,” he says. “This bit here is about how all things must die to seed new beginnings-how, in order to create, we must first destroy. All entropic magic is founded upon the principle that…” then he catches sight of Zevran’s face and smiles. “You aren’t listening, are you?”

“I’d rather watch you talk,” Zevran says smoothly. Surprisingly, Alim just chuckles, seeming flattered but not offended.

“It IS rather dry reading. Comes with the territory when you lead an ascetic life of prayer and lecture.”

“Do you have any books that aren’t quite so...technical?”

Alim seems to think on it. “I think I have a couple of essays on social decay among the Avvar tribesmen in the wake of the Orlesian invasion? The author takes many liberties with her descriptions of-”

“....have you ever read a poem? A bedtime story? Erotica?”

Alim waves a thin hand at Zevran. “I have studied some arts, of course-historical documents which I suppose could qualify as poetry or legend-but only for the sake of academic analysis. Why do you ask?”

Zevran frowns. “Makes me wonder if you’ve ever read for pleasure.” Zevran can think of several smutty books he’d enjoyed as a boy which have...influenced him as an adult.

“I do read for pleasure! I enjoy this greatly,” he huffs. “Pardon me for having such a puritanical upbringing,” he says, and closes the book abruptly. Zevran smiles.

“No,” he says.

"What?”

“I won’t pardon you. You should...branch out more, I say.”

Alim stares at Zevran then, his politeness thrown back at him, closed book on his lap and spilled brandy at his side, the warm light from the fire illuminating what Zevran must admit is a very, very handsome face. Zevran feels a familiar draw to him, the same draw Zevran has felt to every beauty in his life-Zevran has never been able to turn himself down, has always pursued what he wanted. Alim gives him a sharp, defiant glare, his mouth pressed shut, the firelight cutting over the angular precipice of his jaw in a manner most flattering.

“If you think to play games with me, assassin, I’d encourage you to reconsider,” Alim says, his tone clipped and formal.

“What game is it that you think I am playing, my Warden?” Zevran asks-if his expression shows his delight, he can hardly be blamed.

Alim’s cheeks redden and he swallows awkwardly but his gaze remains firm with defiant ferocity. “The kind you will lose.”

Zevran puffs out a small laugh between them, leaning in close. "I’ve never lost, my Warden,” he replies. “Can you say the same?”

Alim opens his mouth as if to reply but looks away suddenly, apparently defeated by the extended eye contact. Zevran sees his adams apple bob when he swallows and feels a pang of fierce, unmistakable lust. It shouldn’t be surprising, as Zevran stokes his own base desires like a man possessed, but Alim isn’t exactly his usual type, being all uptight and traditional.

But what is a banquet without a little variety?

Alim is looking quite anxious, however-even more so than usual, which is impressive considering that his resting heart rate seems to be near cardiac arrest-and Zevran, lech though he may be, is not the type to overstep his boundaries or insert himself into someone else's affairs when he isn’t wanted.

So he backs off. For now. The more he thinks about it, the more an idea begins to unfurl in his head.

“I jest,” he says, patting Alim’s shoulder with the back of his hand and giving the mage his most winning smile. Alim looks wary and disarmed, but his shoulders sag with relief. “I am going to turn in-goodnight, my Warden,” he says. Alim nods slowly and then clears his throat.

"Yes. Goodnight. I trust you don’t need me to put you down tonight?”

“I believe I can make myself unconscious without your aid.”

Alim nods. “Rest well.”

Then Zevran crawls into his small tent and scoots himself under the dense furs he’s gathered from Bodahn. He has no money of his own, but Alim invests his own coinpurse into the wellbeing of their party, and Zevran is more than happy to have a bit of comfort to offset the cold.

He still has to pull himself into a ball, though, and even then his feet get cold. He misses Antiva terribly in moments like these. He misses the broad, waxy green leaves of the plants in Antiva, soaking up the generous sunlight. He misses the seagulls and the loud marketplaces and the stinking alleyways where miscreants like himself prowl the shadows.

But he has to put thoughts like those out of his mind. His bedroll is soft and he is, miraculously, still alive.

To distract himself from less pleasant subjects, he instead examines more closely the idea he had earlier.

Alim is naive-young, too. Handsome, certainly. He’s also most definitely the leader of their little troupe-in spite of his nervous nature, he’s clearly the one who calls the shots. Zevran could certainly do worse than to cozy up to the ringleader of their little group-Alim is likely fool enough to value him for it, perhaps protect him with more ferocity should the inevitable occur.

This is beginning to feel a lot like seducing a target. It helps that Zevran likes Alim, but it’s the familiarity of the task that allows him to relax under his blankets and finally go to sleep. He’s done this a thousand times before-he just has to do it again.

Zevran wakes because thunder rolls loudly through the sky.

Slowly, he opens his eyes. The inside of his tent is dry, but he can taste moistness on the air and smell the clean, damp scent of rain on pine needles.

Groaning, he gets up. He stretches and his back pops. He somehow feels less rested than he did the night before, but he can already hear others murmuring outside of his tent, so it must be time to wake. He puts his leathers one-they feel heavy-and pulls the flap of his tent to the side to look disdainfully out on the Ferelden rain.

“Braska,” he curses.

“Look who’s finally joined us!” Alistair says. His hair is wet and stuck to his head but he doesn’t seem to care; he’s up and stomping around in a full suit of plate armor in spite of the odds. His tone is not entirely welcoming. “Get packed, we need to move.”

“Alistair, do try to keep dry,” Wynne says. “If I have to play nursemaid to you when you catch cold, I’ll shave your head.”

Alistair covers his hair protectively, pouting. “Nooo…”

“It’s raining,” Sten booms from somewhere nearby.

“Yes, I am aware, thank you,” Alim replies, stepping into view. He’s holding his robes up like a lady walking down stairs and he’s pulled his cloak tight around himself, cowl up over his head and hair tucked into it. He looks pathetic, like a cat walking with wet paws.

“We have to get moving-Redcliffe is close,” Alistair says to him. Wynne rolls her eyes and goes about packing up her tent. Leliana, who has apparently just woken up and looks like she's withstood the force of a hurricane, makes a low, unhappy noise at the prospect.

“Must we? Truly? Perhaps the darkspawn could take the morning off and we could all find some nice dry rock to stand under and have a hot cup of coffee. Strong brew, cream but no sugar,” Alim says, his expression wistful.

“It’s raining,” Sten says again.

“Yes, I-we heard you, thank you,” Alim replies for the second time, looking frustrated.

“The roads will be flooded,” Sten says.

“ I’m aware of-will you just help pack, please!”

The party departs in poor spirits. Sten alone seems unbothered by the weather, but Zevran doubts Sten is bothered by much of anything. He’s like a great stone monolith, trudging ahead through wind and rain.

“Here,” Alim whispers to Zevran under the sound of the rain as they trek down a narrow stone path. He ties a scarf around Zevran’s neck, pulling it up over his head. “Can’t have us catching cold, now can we?”

The Ferelden rain is icy and sharp. It hurts when it hits Zevran’s exposed thighs and arms, and twice they have to dislodge Bodahn’s cart from the mud. It extends their travel time greatly, and it’s well past noon by the time they have Redcliffe in their sights.

“Thank the maker,” Leliana groans.

“Does it look a bit...deserted, to you?” Alistair says, frowning. It’s hard to see much through the thin drizzle of cold rain-it renders everything in the distance washed out and grey.

“So long as there’s a roof anywhere in town, it’ll have to do,” Alim grouses.

“Er, before that, actually,” Alistair says, catching Alim by the arm. “There’s something I should probably come clean about.”

What follows is a confession delivered with puppy eyed guilt and a general sense of ill timed fate.

King Maric’s son. Alistair is King Maric’s son. Zevran isn’t exactly up to date on Ferelden politics, but he thinks that would make Alistair a stronger candidate for the Ferelden throne than Loghain, which…

...puts Alim Surana in an interesting position.

“...so just carry on acting like I’m just another nobody, alright?” Alistair asks, looking equal parts desperate and relieved. Zevran looks to Alim-the mage isn’t stupid, the exact same thoughts must be occurring to him as they are to Zevran. Zevran’s mouth quirks into a smirk and he wonders what the Warden will do. Whether or not it’s applicable at the moment, he’s in a position to decide the next King. Alistair has legitimate claim to the throne where Loghain, a powerful general though he may be, does not.

How...interesting.

“Aren’t you?” Alim replies, giving Alistair a tired smile. Loyalty, maybe, will win out.

“Heh! That’s the spirit!” Alistair says, giving Alim a hard pat on th back. Then he turns and walks forward, leaving Alim standing there, staring after him for a moment.

Then they reach the bridge to Redcliffe. Things spiral out of control from there.


End file.
